


Put Your Arrogance Aside

by sideburnsoverlord (Viktory)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: France is also in here but his role is small and idk if he warrants a mention, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:11:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7310791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viktory/pseuds/sideburnsoverlord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>cádiz, early/mid 1808. napoleon's troops have occupied much of the iberian peninsula; england offers spain a chance he doesn't want to take. less politics and more relationship talk tbh</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put Your Arrogance Aside

If he squinted hard enough in one direction, he could just about see the mainland, the rural villages that lay scattered along his western coast around the little Bay of Cádiz. In the other direction all he could see, even on a clear day, was blue on green on blue. Just a vast watery plane, something out of another dimension, that he had never fully conquered no matter how hard he'd tried.

Spain had crossed those waters before, many times, in fact, to the point where he had almost forgotten his fear, to the point where he could almost believe that they belonged to him. But he had never made the mistake of thinking he could control them. Gathering up a handful of sand, he watched the grains drip through his fingers and land on his bare calves, aware that he was wasting time, that France was probably out looking for him this very moment, and when he got back he would be yelled at again—there was a lot of yelling between the two of them, these days—but he needed _quiet_ , for once, he needed time to sort some things out in his head.

Further along the beach, washed-up pieces of wood and kelp had gathered into a dam that stretched past him into the horizon, the last line of defense against the inexorable march of the sea. Again and again the seawater rushed against it like a mad beast, but the kelp did not give. He imagined that the kelp wall was him, and the water was England. For him England had always been the sea.

 

> "How's the weather been treating you?" he'd asked at their last meeting, two days ago.
> 
> "Rainy, as I'm sure it's been for you."
> 
> An inane bit of pleasantry the English called manners. Spain had cleared his throat. He knew why England was really here, not to talk about the weather but rather someone, whom England considered to be a menace. Spain wasn't ready to talk. England knew that too, which must have been why he was hesitating.
> 
> "Coffee?" Spain asked.
> 
> "Tea, if you'd please."
> 
> And there they were: England, seated at the dining table with one hand awkwardly clasped around a silver cup; Spain, standing aimlessly behind him, like a butler in his own home. It was only when Spain had poured out a fourth cup of coffee for himself and remarked, also for the fourth time, that the other's tea had barely been touched, that England had finally thudded his hands on the table. The clatter of the teacup and the kettle hadn't been especially loud and it shouldn't have made Spain jump, but he did anyway.
> 
> "We've been skirting the subject for long enough, Spain—"
> 
> "Why not let me get you a new cup of tea?"
> 
> "Sit." The man gestured with a fair hand towards the chair beside him.
> 
> Spain had noticed that England's knuckles, the ones that were holding onto the handle of the cup, were white. He sat.
> 
> A few decades back Spain would never have allowed himself to yield so easily, but since Utrecht he's felt like a different man: older, weaker, and none the wiser for it.
> 
> England faked a cough and stared hard into his tea, as if hoping to divine a message, some piece of advice or direction, in the sodden leaves.
> 
> _Please don't,_ Spain thought, and when the Englishman raised his eyes to look at him he realized he had spoken aloud. "I mean," he tried again, grasping at a clearer way to phrase things, but his English had never been good at the best of times and it was failing him now. "You don't need to help me. I'll take care of him myself. I know him. I can handle it."
> 
> " _NO, you can't._ " England drummed his fingers against the wood of the table, making a hollow sound. Spain waited and waited and waited, for agonizing seconds or minutes or hours, until England had gathered all that he wanted to say. "Frankly, I don't care one way or the other what happens to you in this war. Whether you stay with France or try to leave, I know you'll make life difficult for him. That's what the Spanish do, isn't it?" He quirked one corner of his mouth up in what could be generously considered a smile. It fell back into a somber straight line as he resumed talking.
> 
> "Your brother, on the other hand—" Spain tensed— "is concerned for you. Imagine it, Spain. Someone who still cares about your well-being, after all that you've put him through. So he's asked me to help you."
> 
> "I told you, I don't need your help, much less that, that traitor's." He gulped down mouthfuls of his lukewarm coffee without tasting it, thinking of Portugal, how this had all started _because of Portugal_ , how much he missed him and wanted him and how desperately he wished to put his hands around his neck...
> 
> England sighed, leaning backwards into his chair. He took a sip of tea and made a face, replacing it on its saucer. "I knew you'd be difficult. I told him as much, but he still wanted me to try. Well, you know what the right thing to do is, but as we're making no progress here, I see no reason to extend my stay."
> 
> Spain sprung up from his chair like a jack-in-the-box and ran towards the foyer, where he grabbed England's coat and hat for him. He was practically pushing England out the door. "I swear I won't raise a finger until you beg me to," England had said then, with a vicious smirk on his face as he turned to leave. He raised Spain's unresisting hand and brought it to his lips in one last mocking gesture. "Not until your pride allows it."

Thinking back to that conversation now, Spain had to suppress the usual old feelings: shame, helplessness, frustration at the way the other had patronized him like he was _stupid—_ maybe he'd been slow on the uptake with Napoleon, but he had duped them all, and who was England to parade in here and humiliate him in his own house and then talk about his brother as if he knew what the full situation was?—but what really hurt was the fact that England was right, at least about the French problem. He _did_ need help and he couldn't put it off any longer with excuses and lying in bed and spending the entire day at church. As if God still cared about him anymore, as if! Perhaps He never had.

His breeches were covered in sand. Spain stood up, brushing himself off, determination in his features, and turned his back on the sea. Something of the old Spain seemed to stir inside him.

If he had to sacrifice his pride to help his people, then so be it.


End file.
